
R 



Class ___p^5^: 




VERSES 

(OLD AND NEW) 
BY 



W. H. MILLS 




Published by the BARNUM STATIONERY CO. 



Printed by 

CAUCH & STEWART 

San Bernardino, CaUfornia 

(Copyright) 

1914 



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TO 
MY WIFE 



Corrigenda. 



Page 3, line 12. For dissapp'inter read disap- 

p*inter. 

Page 27, line 2. For Here read Hear. 

27, " 9. Insert dash before that's. 

30, " 2. For Princes read Princess. 

38, " 1 3. For She is read She's. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

An Elegy - - . 3 

Moonlighters in Mexico - . 6 

Mezcal - - - 9 

An Idyll - - - - 12 

A Tragedy - - - (6 

Hints to Hired Girls - - 18 

On Mount Soracte - - 21 

To the Fairest - - - 23 

Chiropody - . , 24 

Stript Down - - - 26 

Manyana - - - 27 

What He Said - - - 29 

Gardes Joyeuses - - 30 

Kinship - - - 32 

El Camino Real - - 34 

Achievement - - - 37 

California - - - 39 

Aurea Poma - - - 42 

El Mejicano - _ - 44 

A Fair Land - - ,46 

Out West - . - 48 



An Elegy, 

California, land of gold 

And sunshine — so they name you — 

1 wouldn't wish to be so bold, 

Or captious, as to blame you. 

But ju^ a little crow I've got 

To pluck with you at present 

Touching your temper, which has not 
Been altogether pleasant. 

Some months ago we came this way 

To find a genial winter; 
You've been, I feel constrained to say, 

A bit of a dissapp'inter. 



Three 



We wanted to escape the strain 

Of life as lived in Britain, 
Where one is well-nigh drowned by rain, 

Mostly, or else frost-bitten. 

Your rainfall's right; indeed, perhaps, 

Some would prefer it bigger; 
But what of your snaps, and worse than snaps 

Of almost Arctic rigour? 

Your temperature has often aimed 

At zero, and nearly hit it 
Once and again. Is that w^hat's claimed 

For you? And shouldn't you quit it ? 

Think of the fruits that count you "home;" 

Think of your reputation; 
Think of the invalids, w^ho come 

Here for recuperation. 

How can you possibly expedt 

Fine oranges and lemons, 
When, as you well might recollect, 

Frosts are to them as demons ? 



Four 



How can you help folk, whose disease 

Is lung-tuberculosis, 
When what you do is to make them sneeze, 

And cough, and blow their noses? 

Well, you've been victim, one may bet, 

Of circumstance untoward; 
It isn't that you w^ere in a pet. 

Or just perversely fro ward. 

Shake yourself free from Jack Frost's grip, 

And pull yourself together; 
Have done with frosts, and winds that nip, 

And give us warmer weather. 

Be, what you've been for many a year, 
The envy of all earth's nations; 

So shall you have our most sincere 
Thanks and congratulations. 

January 11, 1913. 



Five 



Moonlighters in Mexico. 



Out of our camp one evening went, 
In Uncle's waggon, hunters four; 

It was their firm and fixed intent 

To shoot by moonlight ducks galore. 

So to the ranch they came, and set 

Themselves, with helpers from the farm, 

To manage that the ducks shouW get 

It hot from them, or, leastwise, warm. 

They figured to ambuscade each end, 
And side, in companies, of the land 

Where the ducks fed, and so to send 

Them, as it were, from hand to hand. 



Six 



That was their plan of campaign, and, as 
They'd settled to do, they did; and oh ! 

To see them a' buccaneering was 

A sight, as Uncle remarked, "By Joe." 

It was crawling along the outer dykes — 
Uncle refused to report the w^ords; 

It was shooting in volleys; then further hikes; 
It w^as scampering after w^ounded birds. 

Four hours or so they tramped and shot; 

Retrieved their cripples, picked up their slain; 
Then waited until another lot 

Of birds came up; then shot again. 

Whatever they didn't, or did, was right, 

So long as they shot in time; the duck 

Ju^ simply flew^ at the guns that night. 

Bag — six score birds; how's that for luck? 

1 regret to state that the very same 

Strategy didn't succeed next night, 

For the birds refused to play the game 

As they played it first; they had grown too 
bright. 

Seven 



ENVOI. 

There's that in the game, which seems to jar 

With one's sense of sport, when the thing's 
been done; 

But the ducks are a pest, as locusts are, 

And what's to check it but man and gun? 

What jars is not, I guess, the fact 

That so many birds are bagged — that goes; 
It's the thought of the wounded — the after act — 

The feast of the coyotes and crows. 




Eight 



Mezcal. 

They sell Mezcal with bitters 

In Mexicali salons; 
It's not a drink for critters, 

Who take their grog by gallons. 

At least it would betray them 
Into offence past measure; 

And then would promptly lay them 
Flat, to repent at leisure. 

But take a bigggish thimble- 
ful of it, or, say, a couple. 

And it helps to make you nimble 
And slick and spry and supple. 



Nine 



For it seems to chase all achin', 
And stiffness, from your body, 

Especially if taken 

With hot water, as a toddy. 

It's an excellent dige^ive 

For a bonvivant who gobbles; 

It's an excellent corrective 
Of chronic collywobbles. 

It purges melancholy 

By acting on the liver; 
It warms and makes you jolly. 

When with a chill you shiver. 

There are those who call it "Tiger's 

Milk;" that's an appellation 
Which should bring into court those niggers 

For character-defamation. 

For the Century-Plant's its mother — 

Queen of all daffodillies; 
Or, if you take another 

Name, She's an Amaryllis. 



Ten 



And the thought of AmarylHs, 

As he quaffs this subtle nectar. 

Should make a man, who ill is, 
Spry as a rate-collector. 

For it makes him feel all over 

As he was when he went a'courting; 
And he's ready to play the lover, 

Or settle a rival's snorting. 

So go to Mexicali, 

And try Mezcal with bitters 
Homoeopathically, 

And you'll find yourselves new critters. 




Ei< 



An Idyll. 

A lissom lass, and fair to view, 
She was; her eyes were bright as dew; 
Her hair hung waist-deep in a queue, 
As she went walking in the Zoo. 

'Twas in that way then, I may state, 
Girls wore their hair; I think the date 
Was — tho' my memory fails of late — 
1868. 

What was her age? Just seventeen — 
The age called sweet — and was never seen 
A sweeter lass than this, I ween. 
Upon this earth by mortal e'en. 



Twelve 



Glum at her side young Colin stalked, 
Mourning ambitions mocked and baulked; 
But oh! she stepped, and oh! she talked, 
As in the Zoo that day she walked. 

She talked of this, and talked of that; 
She asked him if he liked her hat; 
She said, as on a seat they sat. 
They now could have a cosy chat. 

She wondered how he'd got the hump; 
She asked him why he was a grump; 
And — was there on her chin a bump? 
Phyllis had given it quite a thump. 

All Colin's griefs fled far away, 
As on she chattered like a jay; 
He asked her hand, nor said she nay, 
All in the Zoo that summer day. 

For, as to scan that bump he leant. 
He found her eyes on his were bent; 
And oh! thro' him a thrill they sent. 
That changed his woe to deep content. 

Thirteen 



Each gave to each a lock of hair; 
They kissed — each kiss was fair and square; 
Then they got wedded, happy pair! 
And in the Zoo still took the air. 



Amaryllis, fair and plump. 

You knew your chin possessed no bump; 

1 only hope you got no chump 
In Colin, but a winning trump. 



ENVOI. 

This is the moral, I surmise. 
Of this short history; lads, be wise. 
And seek that in a lassie's eyes 
From which all fancied trouble flies. 

Colin imagined himself, young fool. 
The sport of fate's tyrannic rule; 
But Amaryllis plumbed his dule, 
And lessoned him in her own school. 

Fourteen 



He looked as if he wished to cry; 
He spoke as if he wished to die; 
And that, of course, was all "my eye," 
Because there w^as no reason why. 

To brisk him up was her first thought; 
Then for his sympathy she sought; 
Then, with those eyes of hers, she taught 
Him wisdom; thus the trick was wrought. 




Fifteen 



A Tragedy, 



Upon the sofa, side by side, 

We sat; 
My heart, I own it, all the time 

Went pit-a-pat. 

Gently about her waist my arm 

I stole; 
I said, "You won*t reveal this fa<5t 

To any soul." 

Then murmuring "Kiss and never tell," 

We kissed; 
Whizz came a slipper at our heads; 

Thank heaven! it missed. 



Sixteen 



I had not noticed in his chair 

Her sire; 
He rose, and came at us, his face 

Bright-red with ire. 

As to what happened next, my mind's 

A blank, 
Except that, thinking caution best, 

I took rear rank. 

I don*t know what it was that made 

Me fall; 
Fve no idea what sped my flight 

Adown the hall. 

I cannot tell, not even now, 

A bit. 
Why it has ever since been pain 

To me to sit. 

One thing alone I know, and that 

Is this — 
I never from that maiden got 

Another kiss. 



Seventeen 



Hints to Hired Girls. 



We live and learn. I learnt one day 

A mo^ convenient phrase, 
Which deprecates and checks, to say 

The least, terms of dispraise. 
If you have shattered aught and fear 

Blame, as a clumsy lout. 
To make your innocence quite clear 

Ju^ say— "I've worn it out." 

It happened thus. I'd given our maid 

An excellent fly-swatter; 
"Flies make it hot for us," I said; 

"Make it for them still hotter." 
She eyed a bug, and aimed a stroke 

With murderous intent; 
She missed the beast, but promptly broke 

In twain the implement. 

Eighteen 



She said, when she returned the bits, 

"I've hit with this, without 
Boasting, at least a thousand hits; 

And, see, I've worn it out." 
She'd really only used it once; 

Had tried one single try; 
She'd broken it just because the dunce 

Had struck her stroke awry. 

So, if you've been unfortunate. 

And broken something nice — 
A china bowl or mug or plate — 

A thing beyond all price — 
Don't say— "It busted of itself;" 

Don't say — "The cat, no doubt. 
Was trying to walk along the shelf;" 

But say — "I've worn it out." 

Or say you've dropped a match aflame 

On the best table-cloth. 
And see no chance of laying the blame 

On earwig or on moth; 
Scrub it with scrubbing brushes, till 

It's like a ragged clout; 
Then let folks bluster as they will. 

And say — "I've worn it out." 



Nineteen 



La^ly, when all the furniture 

Is smashed; when the whole place 
Is wrecked and ruined; then be sure 

That you still save your face. 
Don't worry; make no fuss of it; 

Don*t storm and rave and shout; 
Just say— "Well, Mem, Tm going to quit; 

You've worn my patience out." 




Twenty 



On Mount Soracte. 



Written for a Druidical function. 

O Tau-Bel-Hesus, as before 

This karn, your local shrine, 

We ^and, as Druids wont of yore, 
We make our mystic sign. 

We offer too of mistletoe 

A spray, by way of sample; 

We want the rest ourselves, and so 
We hope you*ll think this ample. 

And on your altar, see, we light 

An emblematic fire. 
Not simply as a pretty sight — 

A thing for to admire. 



Twenty- 



Nor does it flame, as once it would 
Have flamed, to make a pyre; 

Its objedt is to speak of good 
Purpose, and high desire. 

We burn no human victims now, 

Nor eat them when they're torrid; 

Our laws such customs disallow — 
In fact we think them horrid. 

The fires we kindle symbolize 

Truth, purity, devotion; 
And Tau-Bel-Hesus, if you're wise, 

You will accept this notion. 




Twenty-two 



To the Fairest. 



Written on the occasion of a fancy-dress ball, at which a 
prize, to be awarded by the votes of the assembly, was of- 
fered for the most effective costume. 

Fisher-maid and flower-girl — 
Each in her own w^ay a pearl: 
Sparkling witch and nun demure — 
Sights that sore eyes well might cure: 
Paris, your old trouble yet 
Rises up our hearts to fret; 
How can one of these be best? 
Which is better than the rest? 

Twenty-three 



Chiropody. 

A chiropodi^, in the strictly literal sense of the word, 
is a person who causes feet to be chapped or cracked. 

I met a chiropodist, 

And said to him — "What*s your game?" 
He winked, and answered— "Whist !" 

My job is to make folk lame. 

*I tickle their feet, you see. 

Till they use strong words, and kick; 
And they mostly kick— not me, 

But— my chair, for I'm pretty slick. 

Twenty-four 



"Then I charge each gent ten plunks 
For breaking my furniture; 

He pays it, and off he bunks 
To hunt up another cure." 

"And what of their bunions?" "O, 
They must get a C. M/s advice; 

My job is to make them so 

Lame that they can't kick twice. 

"For I must Hve up, you bet, 
To my title's connotations; 

But I'm not perticklar set 

On counter-demonstrations." 




Twenty-five 



Stript Down. 



They christened him John, Constantine, 
Gustavus, Arthur, Valentine, 
Cadwallader, Sebastian, 
Guy, Clarence, Maximilian. 

Her Christian names were Eleanor, 
Augusta, Cicely, Honor, 
Eunice, Laura, Geraldine, 
Penelope, Evangeline. 

Now John, et cetera, day by day 
Wooed Eleanor, et cetera; 
What did they call each other? Well 
She called him "Jack:" he called her "Nell." 

So they got w^ed, and children came 
To keep alive their race and name. 
What fore-names did these kiddies get? 
O, Jack and Nell and Tom and Bet. 

Twenty-six 



Manana. 

A mystic word there is that I 
Here whensoever I would try 
To rouse slack souls to energy — 
Manyana. 

It means just laziness, I fear; 
At all events 1 never hear 
It, when I offer them a clear 

Habana. 

Do-nothingness that's what it is: 
A craving for the sluggard's bliss— 
The sluggard's, for it comes to this, 
Nirvana. 



Twenty-seven 



You need, I guess, you lazy crocks. 
Some of Dame Fortune's nasty knocks, 
Or shocks like those set forth in Box- 

iana. 

Next time you re after your Nirvana, 
I'll lesson you in Boxiana, 
And promise you a clear Habana 
Manyana. 




Twenty-eight 



What He Said. 



Tell me, tell me fair Eileen, 
Will you, will you be my Queen? 

Don*t say— "O this is so sudden;" 
Long my love has been a'buddin*. 

Don't say— "Talk of something else;" 
This all other talk excels. 

Don't say— "Have you quantum suff?" 
Tru^ me, we shall have enough. 

Don't say— "You must ask my mother;" 
That would mean a lot of bother. 

Don't say— "You must ask my father;" 
That would mean— well, I'd much rather 

That you would yourself, Eileen, 
Tell me that you'll be my Queen. 



Twenty-nine 



Gardes Joyeuses. 



We built joy-castles on the sand, 
As Prince and Princes of our land, 

And warders of her shores; 
We'd hardly come to our full growth 
In those far days; in facft we both 

Wore frocks and pinafores. 

I'm building castles still, but they 
Are in the air as yet, and may 

Remain a dream-creation; 
She, only she, can bid them take 
Shape, for I build them for her sake, 

And for her approbation. 



Thirty 



Will she? I'm waiting yet awhile 
Until I've amassed a sufficient pile 

For a castle in miniature; 
And then I'll be off to my lass, I guess, 
And ask her to rule it as its Princess 

So long as our lives endure. 




Thirty-one 



Kinship, 

Stand by your own; stand by 

Your kith and kin; 
Stand by the family, 

Thro' thick and thin; 
Stand up for its good name; 

It*s your name too; 
Never let taint of shame 

Hurt it thro* you. 

If fortune seems to frown. 

And things go ill 
With them, stand by your own; 

Hold to them still. 
Keep kinship's claim in mind, 

Remembering 
This— that "akin" and "kind" 

Mean the same thing. 



Thirty-two 



You may not turn your face 

From any soul 
That needs and asks your grace- 

Your pity's dole. 
To flout such were a sin, 

But the blood-call— 
The cry of kith and kin — 

Ranks first of all. 

Traitors, who love a lie. 

For profit's sake 
Break other ties; this tie 

They cannot break. 
Nothing, All Nature saith. 

Snaps the blood-bond; 
It holds thro' life to death. 

Aye, and beyond. 



Thirty-three 



El Camino Real. 



As erst Saint Paul went forth to claim 

The kingdoms of the world for Christ, 

So Fra Junipero Serra came 

To be this land's evangelist. 

Never was truer Saint of all 

The souls who that high name have won; 
His was the courage of Saint Paul; 

His was the spirit of Saint John. 

He opened out the "King's Highway," 

The aim of his imaginings 
Being that it should be for aye 

A Highway of the King of kings: 

Thirty-four 



No common road, tho' all might fare 
Along it, but a road whereby 

The messengers of peace might bear 
Their message and their ministry. 



From South to North the stations rose, 

Which marked the track of that highway; 

Each held aloft the Cross which shows 

God's truth, God's love, God's conquering 
sway. 



And Indians, won from their fierce creeds, 
Learnt to obey the law of Chri^; 

Its Gospel satisfied their needs; 
They tested it, and it sufficed. 



So "El Camino Real" came 

To be a royal road indeed; 

It realized Junipero's aim. 

And is of his eternal meed. 



Thirty-five 



For, consecrate by him, it was 
A very "Way of Holiness"— 

A way by which freed souls might pass 
Zionward thro' earth's wilderness. 




Thirty-sue 



Achievement, 



A SETTLER'S SONG. 

She's coming to me 

Across the sea — 
The lass that I left in the old countree; 

She*s coming to bear 

My name, and share 
My life, my every joy and care. 

For her dear sake 

I came to make 
A home in this waste of brush and brake; 

And my task, I trow. 

Is accomplished now, 
For my land's all watered and under plough. 



Thirty-seven 



The crops of a year 

Have set me clear 
To build a house that will please my dear; 

And, now that she 

Can come by sea 
Right thro*, she's coming, my lass, to me. 

O bless the man 

Out of whose brain-pan 
Came the thought of wells Artesian, 

And the scientific 

Souls, whose magnific 
Work linked the Atlantic and Pacific. 

She is coming to me 

Across the sea — 
The lass that I left in the old countree; 

She's coming to bear 

My name, and share 
My life, my every joy and care. 



Thirty-eight 



California, 

Sung at the National Orange Show^ San Bernardino, 
1914. 

Of all the countries, which romance 

Has pictured as earth's hope and pride, 
These three, I think — Spain, England, France — 

Stand in the front rank, side by side. 
England the merry, France the fair, 

Spain, the adventurous knightly land — 
These fill the picture; yes, but where 

Does sunny California stand? 

Refrain. 

O land of fruits and flow^ers: 
O land, which nature dowers 
With all her wealth of loveliness, with all her 
braveries: 

We sound abroad thy praise 
With music and with lays, 
Which show thee, what thou surely art, an earth- 
ly paradise. 

Thirty-nine 



They knew her not— the minstrel-men, 

Who, in the mid-age of our earth, 
Chaunted their rhapsodies; for then 

She had not come to her full birth. 
But as for mirth— what gramarye 

Her sunshine gladness could enhance? 
Is she not fair as fair can be? 

Is she not home of true romance? 

Refrain. 

This is the land men wont to call 

Atlantis— an ideal Isle, 
Whereon the sun at evenfall 

Smiled, as he set, his farewell smile— 
The land which, in a later day, 

Padre Junipero Serra trod, 
What time he built "The King's Highway," 

And consecrated it to God. 

Refrain. 



Forty 



England is merry now no more; 

Her heart is rent by jealousies; 
France is no longer, as of yore, 

Faired of all earth's emperies. 
And as for Spain — what now remains 

Of her martial fame, of her old renown? 
But California still retains 
Her pride of place as nature's crow^n. 

Refrain. 



Forty-c 



Aurea Poma. 



In days of old, so ran the tale, 

Far out at sea, toward the West, 
Lay isles, untouched by fro^ or gale, 

Fair as the Islands of the Blest. 
Upon these isles grew apple trees. 

Whose fruit was golden to the eye. 
Safeguarded by the Hesperides, 

And a grim dragon, couched anigh. 

Refrain. 

O golden apples of the past, 
What were ye but a dim forecast 

Of golden oranges? 
What were those isles but prophecies 
Of California's sunny skies. 

And sunlit groves and leas? 

Forty-two 



Whatever crops those islands bare 

On CaHfornian soil are grown; 
Her citrus-fruits will stand compare 

With that famed fruit, and hold their own. 
And California bears them, not 

To please one jealous owner's sight. 
But for the world to use, and what 

She seeks is the whole world's delight. 

Refrain. 



No cruel dragon has its lair 

Among her groves, to scare or slay; 
Not even rattlesnakes lurk where 

Her orange-trees make their display. 
Her nymphs, like the Hesperides, 

Are daughters of the golden West, 
But what they guard is not her trees. 

But hearts of those they love the best. 

Refrain. 

Forty-three 



El Mejicano. 



The Mexican, if Fm not wrong, 

Is just a rum 'un; 
I knovvr no rummier soul among 

Men born of woman. 

As parodist he is, past doubt. 

Of all men aptest; 
He calls a pot-house the "hang-out 

Of John the Bapti^." 

Or, seeing in it a milder grace. 

The name he'll vary. 
And christen it the "resting place 

Of holy Mary." 

All sacred names find place in his 

Vocabulary; 
Of using them for emphasis 

He's nowise chary. 

Forty-four 



Yes, but this habit is, it seems, 

Just superstition; 
That using them thus he blasphemes 

He's no suspicion. 

One thing above all others suits 

His constitution, 
And that is, whether he fights or loots, 

A revolution. 

Pulque, maybe, prompts some of his 

Extravagances, 
For, taken in bulk, it stirs, ywis, 

Eccentric fancies. 

He's half an Aztec still at heart — 

That's the real bother; 
And which half is the stronger part — 

Well, ask another. 

Wherefore I say, nor think I'm wrong. 

That he's a rum 'un; 
I know^ no rummier soul among 

Men born of w^oman. 



Forty- five 



A Fair Land, 



This is^the fabled region where 

The Hyperboreans lived out West — 
An Eden, ever bright and fair. 

Which great Apollo ruled and blest. 
It is the garden, named of old 

"The garden of the Hesperides," 
Whose golden Avalon foretold 

Our groves of golden oranges. 

What shall we call her? Arcady? 

The Country of the Golden Gate? 
The Land, above all lands that be. 

Of Heart's Desire? The Golden State? 
No matter. Titles such as these 

All shadow forth her grace and fame; 
Yet count that, call her what you please. 

What spells romance be^ spells her name. 

Forty-six 



-Romance? Aye, realized romance: 
Fulfilments of hope*s prophecies: 

deals, thro' the clairvoyance 

I Of one seer, made realities — 

That is the story of our land. 

Pray Heaven that, where great Serra led, 

We may not fear to follow, and 

Tread where his footprints bid us tread. 




Forty-i 



Out West. 

"Out West" they say. All right; but out of what? 

Out of what's called "High Life?" Way out beyc 
The gay world's pomps and pleasures and what not: { 

The Vanity Fair of fashion: the beau monde? 



Well, yes; we are outsiders, more or less, 

Thus far; with us Dame Fashion's not a-top; 

That doesn't trouble us a lot, I guess; 

We'd sooner have a cow-boy than a fop. 

But, all the same, in these far distant parts 
We're fairly civilized upon the whole; 

We have our share, I think, of honest hearts — 
Of souls who look past dollars for their goal. 

Forty-eight 



I^eVe not illiterates; if folk are short 

Of books, that want is even now supplied. 

he Arts and Sciences hold con^ant Court 
Among us, and are honoured far and wide. 

rhe feast of reason and the flow of soul" 

Enter our social feasts, and give them zest; 

)ur sympathies reach out from pole to pole; 
We're not parochial sectaries "Out West." 

7eve windbags, grafters, grubbers; yes, a few; 

More than we know^ perhaps; more than we want; 
Ut look the wide world over, and, if you 

Can tell us where there aren't such souls, we can't. 

^nd as for climate, as for fruits and flowers — 

Well, of these things we're not inclined to boast; 

ut when the States "Back Ea^" can better ours. 
Then we'll make tracks for the Atlantic coast. 

leantime we've lots to think of and to do; 

Our work's cut out for us from day to day; 
7e have our play times, and we use them too; 

In short we're here, and here we mean to stay. 



Forty-nine 




PUBUSHED BY THE AUTHOR 



Printed by CAUCH & STEWART 
SAN BERNARDINO, CALIFORNIA 



(Copjrright) 
1914 



Eulalia. 

"Sweet-heart" they call her, when we meet 

Our men-friends sauntering down the street; 

"We" means Eulalia and myself; 

I'm an old fellow; she's an elf. 

Refrain. 

"Sweet-heart," "Sweetheart," they gaily cry, 

And then they smile and wave good-bye; 

That's now; but, I guess, some day 
'Twill be — not a smile and a waved good-bye. 
But — "Sweet-heart, love me or I die;" 

For that's what they mo^ly say. 

It doesn't move her much as yet — 

That word "Sweetheart;" her thoughts are set 

On other matters, such as toys, 

And dolls that mimic baby-boys. 

Refrain. 



She's two years old, and so, you see, 
Has no care yet for galanteries, 
No use for a lover's vows; and yet 
She's a bit, I reckon, of a coquette. 
Refrain. 

Natheless she keeps a special place 

In her heart of hearts, and a special grace, 

For daddy, and mummy, and grandmamma, 

Aye, and for me — her grandpapa. 

Refrain. 

William Hathorn Mills. 




VERSES 

BY 

W. H. MILLS 




Published by BARNUM STATIONERY CO. 
Printed by CAUCH & STEWART. San Bernardino. Cal. 
(Copyright) 
1914 



Contents. 

PAGE 

The Golden West - - - - | 

A Great Franciscan - - - - 3 

San Bernardino 7 

San Buenaventura 10 

Los Angeles - - - - - 13 

Camping Out - - - - - 1 5 

Camp-Followers - - - - 21 

An Imp - - - _ - - 23 

Moon-Lighting in Mexico - - - 28 

Dogged 30 

Vnitas Vnitatum - - - - 33 

Pax Parata - - . - , 35 



The Golden West. 



The isle that to Montalvo seemed 

Half faery, half Elysian, 
What time he wrote, and writing dreamed, 

Las Sergas de Esplandian — 

This, less all freaks of phantasy, 
Less fables born to die away, 

A dream-land made reality. 
Our California is to-day. 

All sorts of fruits it freely bears 

In groves, thick-laden as Chri^mas trees- 
Oranges, lemons, apples, pears, 

Apricots, peaches, — w^hat you please. 

Elsewhere it is as a garden-field 

Of flow^ers, asparagus, beet, tomatoes; 

Its very deserts, watered, yield 

Alfalfa, melons, dates, potatoes. 



"A land of corn and wine and oil" — 
That is what Canaan was of old; 

All this our Californian soil 

Is; you may add its herds and gold. 

For it's also a land of ranches, where 
Cattle and horses are bred and fed; 

It's also a land, where miners tear 

The golden ore from its native bed. 

But its best possession, its be^ asset. 

Is the gold that ripens the fruits it bears — 

The sunshine-gold, w^hich all may get, 

For it's lavished on all in equal shares. 

There are those who call it "the Land of Heart's 

Desire" — a present Utopia; 
Those, w^ho have studied the ancient arts, 

Might call it a Cornucopia. 

Others have named it "the Golden Land" — 

An El Dorado realized; 
But its minerals bring less gold to hand 

Than the fields its rivers have fertilized. 



Call it whatever you will, it is 

The pick of the earth — a paradise, 

With certain eccentricities. 

Of fruitful fields and smiling skies. 

It isn't perfect; that's confest; 

Eden itself with a snake was curst; 
But, spite of rattlers, and of that pest, 

Culex, of all lands it's the first. 




Three 



A Great Franciscan. 



Fray Junipero Serra, we, 
Pondering your life-history, 
Bare our heads to your memory. 

Truly yours was a beautiful soul; 

Truly yours was a lofty goal; 

Truly your life was a perfect whole. 

As a valiant soldier of Christ, you bore 
The brunt of the battle that won this shore, 
And we hail you its true Conquistador. 

Si monumentum quaeritis. 

Strangers, who visit this land, it is 

All round about you and it's just this: — 

A land from heathen savageries 
Redeemed by uplifting enterprise. 
And made a fruitful paradise. 

Four 



It's all an issue of what he wrought: 

A realization of what he sought: 

A fruit of the lessons he lived and taught. 

For he was the first evangelist 
Who brought to this land the Name of Christ- 
Aye, and its first agriculturist. 

He taught the natives the arts of peace; 

He made their abominations cease; 

He changed their deserts to tilths and leas. 

Weary often he must have been 

In body — aye, and in soul, I ween. 

But his heart was great, and his faith serene. 

And so the dreams of his youth came true; 
For the Indians loved him — believed him too, 
And did whatever he bade them do. 

Won by his influence they became 
Christians — disciples, whose lifelong aim 
Was to live lives worthy of their new name. 

And the mission stations he founded here, 

Tho' ruined now, are a witness clear 

Of his work, and make his memory dear. 



Five 



Aye, and of sacrilege they indict 

Those who afterwards did despite 

To his order, as reckoning Might was Right. 

Fray Junipero, loyal son 

Of the Faith, I think, when your race was run. 

You heard your Master's — "Well done: Well done." 




Six 



San Bernardino. 



About us tower, a vision grand! 

San Bernardino's peak and range; 
Like giant walls they seem to stand 

Changeless, yet monuments of change, 

*Twas in the tertiary age, 

When seismic forces shook the earth, 
And stamped their record on this page 

Of Nature's book, that they took birth. 

Eras have passed since then; yet still 

Earth-tremors now and again may shake 

Their calm, as when they felt the thrill 
Of San Francisco's awful quake. 

It thrilled them — yes, but in no wise 

Disturbed their steadfast constancy; 
It thrilled them — yes, but still they rise 

Unmoved, in their solemn majesty. 

Seven 



Snow-crowned, magnificent, serene, 

They seem to meet and pierce the skies — 

A sheltering rampart, and a screen 
From the chill North's discourtesies. 

It's thanks to them that the valley teems 

With flowers and fruits, with corn and oil; 

For the waters, caught from their springs and streams, 
Make runnels to irrigate the soil. 

What's in a name? Well, names there are. 

The sound of which, as a trumpet-call, 
Summons to light for the right, and dare 

All for its sake, tho' the heavens fall. 

Aye, dare whatever a man may do. 

Or bear — as erst the Apostle Paul, 
de Xavier, Damien, dared, what tho* 

To do what they did was to lose their all: 

All, that is, that the world counts good — 

Its ease, its pleasures, its luxuries; 
All that our natural tempers would 

Choose as a heritage and prize. 

Eight 



That was the way of the friars, who came 

Hither a hundred years ago; 
That was the way of the Saint, whose name 

They set on the hills, and the vale below. 

It's just the way of the Cross — the way 
Of self-denial for others' sake — 

The way, whatever the world may say. 
All of us always are called to take. 

So we dwell in the midst of memories. 

As well as amid fair scenes of beauty — 

Memories calling to high emprize. 
And steadfast effort to do our duty. 

San Bernardino, here's to your health; 

Here's to your growth, and prosperity; 
And we wish you, what is the truest wealth. 

Courage and faith in your destiny. 



Nine 



San Buenaventura. 



Ventura, they who lately dipt 
Your name, and *'San Buena" skipt. 
Into a blunder surely slipt. 

What's in a name? There's this- — a claim 
That they, who bear a noble name, 
Should live lives worthy of its fame. 

San Bernardino dipt, it's true, 
Saves breath, but then it loses too 
All inspiration as Berdoo. 

Fortune may be or good or ill. 
And, seeming good, may but fulfil 
The mockeries of an evil will. 

Success may be too dearly bought, 
And fortune's gifts, if wrongly sought, 
And wrongly won, are things of naught 

Ten 



So "San Buena" seems to say, 
Seek fortune in a righteous way. 
As in Junipero's earthly day: 

Who gave this place in days of yore 
The name a Christian saint once bore, 
To christen it for evermore. 

Therefore, Venturans, don't forget 
The prefix which of old was set 
Before your name, and should be yet. 

Let memories of your ancient name 
Move you to make your every aim 
Such as Junipero would acclaim. 

Your Mission Churches stand to teach 
What faith and duty mean, and preach 
Christ unto all within their reach. 

Long may they serve their ministry; 

Long may the Cross, which stands on high, 

Lesson you how to live and die. 

A beacon for the ships at sea, 

A beacon may it also be 

Signalling souls — "Come unto ME." 

Eleven 



Fair are your mountains, fair your sea; 
Your fruits and flowers are fair to see; 
Aye, all is fair as fair can be. 

Let these reflections of God's grace 
Move you to run your earthly race 
As souls who long to see His Face. 




TweK 



Los Angeles. 



Los Angeles, the angels* town! 
What if an angel-host came down 

To visit their own city? 
What would their thoughts be? Thoughts of glad 
Emotion, or reflections sad 

Of sorrow and of pity? 

Some things they surely would approve 
As tokens of unselfish love 

At work for human weal — 
Your hospitals, your libraries, 
Museum, parks, academies, 

Your Churches' holy zeal. 

But are there not, your bounds within, 
Abodes of vice, foul haunts of sin, 

Which shame your high estate? 
Are there not crimes and infamies 
Practised by brutes in human guise — 

Things such as angels hate? 

Thirteen 



O Angelenos, let your aim 

Be to live worthy of the name — 

The holy name — you bear; 
So shall the angels help and guide 
And keep you, whatsoe'er betide, 

For ever in their care. 




Fourteen 



Camping Out. 



After the ducks in Mexico — 

The ducks that eat the corn that's sown 
For men and beasts and fowls — we go 

Hither and thither, up and down. 

Where irrigated fields lie damp, 

By swamps and pools and slues galore, 

Along the broad lagoon, we tramp. 
And shoot at them with number four. 

Sometimes we miss them, sometimes fail 
To find them on our morning beat; 

When this is so, there are the quail — 
And quail are excellent to eat. 

Some of us, now the moon is bright. 

Where on the fields shed corn lies thick, 

Have hunted feeding ducks by night; 
And this has often done the trick. 



Fifteen 



One day we clomb volcanic slopes, 

To where the Colorado's flood 
Has made irruption, with high hopes — 

Hopes that were all nipped in the bud. 

For other folks had pitched their camp 
Before us, 'neath the crater's scaur — 

Some inconsiderate and pamp- 
ered souls, who owned a motor-car. 

Their empty bottles, cast away. 

Showed they had feasted; and, worse luck! 
Their empty shells were proofs that they 

Had killed or scattered all the duck. 

One solitary diver died 

Before one hunter's gun; it cost 
Six shots to kill it; nought beside 

Came to our bag; 'twas labour lost. 



They've gone — those energetic souls, 

Who camped with us in our first kraal; 

And, since that shack upon the whole's 
Dismal, I've moved to an old corral. 



Sixteen 



And here with Uncle Hick O'Neal, 

As guide and cook and comrade too, 

I live a gypsy life, and feel 
Fit as a flea, or kangaroo. 

The days are hot; the nights are cold; 

The contrasts, I'll allow, aren't nice; 
We're scorched at noon; our buckets hold 

Each morn an inch of solid ice. 

Yet, couched at night beneath a pile 

Of rugs, I'm warm, to my surprise; 
And oh! the sunshine's like a smile 

Against the frown of English skies. 

All winter through, in this fair clime. 

You can camp out, and have no fear; 
For it isn't till spring, or summer, time 

That snakes, mosquitoes, rains appear. 

We never worry, never haste 

To catch a train here; by the way. 
One only train runs through this waste, 

And it runs only once a day. 

Seventeen 



A waggon drawn by two old mules, 
Takes us about; they never trot; 

To bustle themselves would break their rules, 
I take it, and it's far too hot. 



We live from hand to mouth, 'tis true; 

Yet for our needs we have enough ; 
Birds, bacon, coffee — Mezcal too — 

With cheese and cakes, are quantum suff. 

As for Mezcal, it has, ywis, 

A tang of its own, likewise a smell; 
Yet, after all, there's a certain bliss 

in drinking essence of asphodel. 

For amaranth and asphodel 

Are, as the poets sing, the flowers 

Which deck the Elysian fields, where dwell 
The blest, and beautify their bov/ers. 

It's all a poets' tale, you say; 

Maybe; and yet there's a sort of spell 
In the thought, which helps to chase away 

One's first distrust of that tang and smell. 

Eighteen 



It's fifty cents a bottle; there 

Is a better sort, but for this you give — - 
That is, if you're a millionaire — 

One dollar, or one twenty-five. 

We couldn't run to that fearsome price; 

Moreover — this augments its merit 
For vagabonds — Mezcal gees twice 

As far as the more expensive spirit. 

Visitors come to us, now and then — 

Motorists from Calexico, 
Mexicans, Indians, Chinamen, 

Britishers — passers who come and go. 

We feed the hungry; their appetites 

Are often big; give thirsty peds 
Drinks; for the Chinese Uncle writes 

Letters, and finds them sacks for beds. 

And so we potter along; at times 

We shoot, bring logs in, do our chores; 

At times I write these doggrel rhymes, 
While 'neath a mezquite Uncle snores. 

Nineteen 



That's how at present we're taking rest; 

That's how^ we're making holiday; 
You can't well beat it; it's quite the best 

Medicine I know. Here ends this lay. 




Twenty 



Camp-Fo llowers. 



Road-runners three our camp frequent, 

And eat up all our odds and ends; 
They look on us, I guess, as sent 

By Providence to be their friends. 

Fragments of bread and cheese and fruit: 
What v>re don't want of quail and duck: 

Such things as these all seem to suit 

Their taste; they take them as pot-luck. 

One visitor we had comiplained 

He'd left one night at his tent-door 
A dozen eggs; next morn remained 

Twelve empty egg-shells — nothing more. 

Road-runners had surveyed the show; 

Had found his eggs, and sucked the lot; 
This aggravated him, and so 

He finished their career with shot. 

Twenty-one 



He'd not forgiven them; as for me, 
Who have no new-laid eggs at stake, 

Birds that eat rattlesnakes are free 
To take whatever they can take. 

They're having carousals now around 
The chair whereon I sit and smoke; 

One's not two yards away; he's found 
I'm not an inimical bloke. 

He lifts and lowers his nodding crest; 

His tail wags ceaselessly; I think 
He's really doing his very best 

To perpetrate a friendly wink. 

Ah! in a moment he has gone; 

He has a feud, which nought can staunch, 
With passing motor-cars, and one 

Is hurrying up toward the ranch. 



Twenty-two 



An Imp. 

The little chipmunk 

Is full of spunk, 
And it takes a lot to skeer him; 

Yet he's also wary, 

And somewhat chary 
Of letting you get too near him. 

But, all the same. 

He soon gets tame, 
Especially if you feed him; 

He'll sit on your foot. 

As on a tree-root, 
Or stump, if you don't stampede him. 

It isn't funk 

When he makes a bunk, 
But he takes no needless chances; 

He's pert and spry. 

Or still and shy, 
According to circumstances. 

Twenty-three 



He burrows a hole — 

This wily soul — 
In the ground, and there takes shelter; 

Or, if need be, 

Streaks up a tree 
With his family, helter-skelter. 

He sits on his heels 

To take his meals. 
And his jaws go snicker-snicker, 

With the energy 

And velocity 
Of a Waterbury ticker. 

Locusts he'll eat, 

But he's mighty sweet 
On corn, new-sown or reapit; 

And he'll loot your larder, 

If you've no warder, 
In the shape of a cat, to keep it. 

He munches apples; 

With nuts he grapples; 
Likes carrots and beans and berries; 

His appetite 

Is cosmopolite. 
But he's extra fond of cherries. 

Twenty-four 



His cheeks bulge out 

Till they're just about 
As tight as he well can pack 'em; 

Then off to his holt 

He makes a bolt. 
To digest his supplies, or stack *em. 

An inch away 

From his hole one day 
I laid a rind of bacon; 

He sat on a chunk 

Of wood, and wunk 
At me, if I'm not mistaken. 

As soon as I'd gone 

To my chair, he was on 
The spot, to inspect this treasure; 

He nibbled a bit. 

And it seemed to fit; 
So he finished it at his leisure. 

Would fish food vary 

His dietary — 
I wondered, and thought I'd try it; 

The head of a trout 

Resolved my doubt, 
For he passed disdainful by it. 

Twenty-five 



For stale refuse 

He has no use — 
This clean-souled little rodent; 

Where a rat would thrive 

He couldn't live, 
And, for that matter, wouldn't. 

You may call him names 

Such as fancy frames 
For imps; you may dub him rascal; 

But, whatsoever 

You call him, never 
Can you this imp an ass call. 

For he's slick and cute 

Past all dispute. 
And he needs no inciting wallops; 

For he's never slow, 

But is on the go 
All day, and he mostly gallops. 

Curled up in his keep, 

He spends in sleep 
The winter; but when spring's beauties 

Peep forth, he awakes, 

And promptly takes 
Up again his round of duties. 

Twenty-six 



The little chipmunk 

Is never punk: 
Never a feckless slacker; 

He works for his food, 

Aye, and makes good. 
As nut-storer, and nut-cracker. 




Twentv-seven 



Moon- Lighting in Mexico. 



The moon is full; the ducks are thick 

Upon the irrigated lands; 
He that would get them must be slick. 

And grasp his chance with both his hands. 

He must be at them all the night; 

His downy pillow he must scorn; 
Must shoot them by the pale moonlight; 

Must follow them up from eve to morn. 

This is no weakling's work; you'd best 

Be young; you must be hale and strong; 

For irrigated fields are just 

Swamps for the time — swamps broad and long. 

It's tramping up, and tramping down, 

In companies of three or four; 
It's firing right into the brown. 

And chasing cripples by the score. 

Twenty-eight 



That is the game ; by it you get 

A lot of ducks— at least you may; 

Not a bad proposition; yet 

For me — bed, single birds, and day. 




Twentv-nine 



Dogged. 

A most unscrupulous little sinner, 

Bearing a soft romantic name, 
Sheila, with naught of softness in her — 

Into our home and hearts she came. 

Of bluest aristocratic blood, 

Bred of the stock they breed in Skye, 

Long-haired, short-legged, sharp-nosed, she stood 
Somewhere about six inches high. 

Thoroughly spoilt, she had a hot 
Temper, and any amount of pride; 

Her tastes were dainty; she claimed and got 
The best of all that the house supplied. 

She liked her comforts at night; she slept 
On her master's bed; I think one eye 

Was always open; thus she kept 
Watch over him and the family. 

Thirty 



Once, thought to be delicate, she was clad 

In a jacket; she had no use for it; 
Tho' little more than a toy, she had 

A bulldog's pluck, and a bulldog's grit. 

She'd a sense of sport in her soul all right, 

But limited in its range and scope; 
She had no sympathy of delight 

With the spaniel's joy, or the setter's hope. 

In a sort of half-hearted way she'd run 

After rabbits; at times she would chivy cats; 

But, if you wanted to see some fun. 

You had only to mention the one word — "Rats.' 

One day we missed her; she didn't come 
To dinner — a most unwonted thing; 

She had followed the old rat-catcher home. 

We thought, to return when she'd had her fling. 

She never came back again; we sought. 

But sought her vainly, everywhere. 
Till, all of a sudden, occurred a thought 

Of the moat — had somebody drowned her there 

Thirty-one 



Some tramp she'd bitten? She was, we knew, 
A trifle free with her teeth, if vext; 

So we drained the moat, and then the true 
Story came out — comment and text. 

For three feet down we found her dead, 
Gripping a dead rat, thigh and shank — 

A rat whose shoulders, fore paws and head 

Were wedged in a hole in the root-bound bank. 

She had chased the rat, when it made a bolt, 

To the moat's steep brink, to the depths below; 

She had caught it just as it gained its holt. 
And died with it rather than let it go. 




Thirty-two 



Vnitas Vnitatum Omnia Vnitas. 



She will not fall thro' the assault, 
As the first cause, of foreign foes — 
Old England ; if she falls, God knows 

Her own, not theirs, will be the fault: 

Her own, because that word of power, 
"Union is strength," is lost upon her; 
And, deaf to calls and claims of honour. 

She dreams, tho' this is an evil hour. 

What of her colonies — the young 

Nations who flocked to their mother's side 
In her time of need, and fought and died 

For her, when her fate in the balance hung? 

How can they help, however leal, 
A land which suffers those to sway 
Her will, who fritter and fool away. 

By breaking union, her strength and weal? 

Thirty-three 



England, awake! Awake to do 

The work that is yours; have done with lies; 

Have done with demagogues* sophistries; 
And be to yourself and your children true. 

Gather them all, as your family, 

To share your counsels, to take their part 
In your world-matters; that so one heart, 

One spirit, may make you a Unity. 

Five nations reckon you Mother-State; 

Give them a place in your Parliament; 

Seek their, as well as your own, content; 
And you shall be greatest among the great: 

Great with the power that makes to cease 
All evil, that brings all good to birth; 
Great, as the salt of all the earth — 

Its salt of purity and of peace. 



Thir^-four 



Pax Parata. 



"Forewarned, forearmed," they say; but what 

If warnings fall on heedless ears- 
Ears deafened by a noisy lot 

Of fools, who dub precautions "fears:" 

Who mock at "fears," that they may preach 

License as glorious liberty — 
Freedom from every bond — and teach 

Rank irresponsibility? 

Imperial interests, the claims 

Of colonies, the common w^eal — 

Such words to them are empty names: 
Appeals they simply cannot feel. 



Thirty-five 



As for defence again^ attack 

By foreign foes — why, that would mean 
Class knit to class; and they would lack 

A job — a terrible thing, 1 ween. 

So, as false prophets cried of yore, 

They cry, "Peace, Peace," and "All is well, 
Tho' muttering sounds, foreboding war, 

Are rife, as 'ere Jerusalem fell. 

O land, whatever land thou art, 

Prick all thy wind-bags; stop their bray; 
And lay this saving truth to heart — 

Pacem si vis, bellum para. 




Thirty-six 



